Tide of Names

She stands where land breathes its last,
toes touching the restless tide, a small purple dress
whispering against her hips like a song forgotten.
Sunglasses dangle, reflecting a world
that measures her by the curve of her body.

The sea, insatiable, has known many like her:
women who wade between tradition and tomorrow,
unpin white hats like surrender flags,
press footprints into wet sand
only to watch them dissolve, unnamed.

She smiles, radiant, deliberate,
a defiance learned from grandmothers
who swallowed the ocean’s salt and never drowned.
The sun casts its orange benediction
on her glowing face she carries
like a moon tucked beneath her ribs.

In the neon hum of the city,
her name speaks in two tongues,
one reaching for the past, the other
sharpened by glass towers and high-speed trains.
Her body is an argument
for restraint, for desire, for a place
that asks her to be whole.

The waves call her deeper,
offering no answers, only movement.
She steps forward, feeling the water
write itself around her skin,
a language both foreign and hers to claim.